


'til the new day comes to love us again

by mechanicalUniverses



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 23:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalUniverses/pseuds/mechanicalUniverses
Summary: Night awoke slowly on the South Downs. The orange rays of the sun have settled beneath the blanket of slumbering fog beginning to rise from the sea. Trees huddled in a nearby woods shushed each other as the breeze rolling off a quiet ocean rustled through their leaves. The street lamps illuminated not a single soul but for the old barking dog whose senile senses have not detected a squirrel at this time, but its own tail. Almost everything hidden within the fog is asleep, rocked by the lullaby of the sea gliding along the shoreline.Everything, except for the old dog, and the much older angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	'til the new day comes to love us again

**Author's Note:**

> wahoo! more soft pieces! i just love these two so much :.)  
i swear i'll get back to gehd when i have the energy for it,, i keep getting exhausted and can really only manage short pieces like these. i hope you don't mind.

Night awoke slowly on the South Downs. The orange rays of the sun have settled beneath the blanket of slumbering fog beginning to rise from the sea. Trees huddled in a nearby woods shushed each other as the breeze rolling off a calm ocean rustled through their leaves. The street lamps illuminated not a single soul, but for the old barking dog whose senile senses have not detected a squirrel at this time, but its own tail. Almost everything hidden within the fog is asleep, rocked by the lullaby of the sea.

Everything, except for the old dog, and the much older angel.

Aziraphale could almost always be found up and about at around midnight. About, no, but awake, yes. Though Crowley had tried his best to get him accustomed to sleep, he finds he cannot manage more than around five hours at a time. As a result, he is always the last to fall asleep and the first to awaken. He hoped Crowley did not mind this arrangement, or at least did not want to change it, because then the routine Aziraphale has grown to look forward to every day might change, too.

They both were settled into bed sometime between ten and eleven o’clock pm. They would sit and murmur to each other until no more words had to be spoken. When all was quiet but for the raspy woofs of the old dog, Crowley murmured his goodnights, pressed a kiss somewhere on Aziraphale’s body—his cheek, his side, his shoulder—and rolled over and away from the light of Aziraphale’s reading lamp. Aziraphale would continue to read for another hour or two, listening to the turning of the pages beneath the orchestra of the crickets and the distant owls. 

There was a deep intimacy Aziraphale shared with the light of his reading lamp and the soot-black petals of the sky gently unfurling to let its brilliant, round moon glow upon silvery sea-grass swaying and dancing to the melody of the tides. When it was warm, he kept the windows wide open so that the aromas of Crowley’s garden could join him and his lamp as they pleased. Some nights it was the lavender which came to settle in the folds of the curtains, and some nights it was the roses that boldly weaved its way into the covers of their bed. The basil was not too shy to simply observe from the windowsill. Underlying that was the earthy smell of freshly turned soil. Cupping all of it together in gentle hands was love, oh, so much _love._

Aziraphale’s whole existence had come to this point, this singularity on the sea-being horizon where he spent his days with his entire universe, his everything, at his side. He seemed so far away once. So unreachable. That had been a trick, a distortion of his own truths to those of Heaven’s. Once the illusion was lifted, once the world did not end, and the sea-grass danced, and the ocean tides rolled on, Aziraphale turned and found Crowley right beside him. He’d never been far from him at all. He discovered that one gentle summer evening when their heat-sweetened passion grew too large to contain in just two bodies. Out it came in dozens (hundreds perhaps) of words, no small bouts of confusion, some anger, much relief, few tears, and a step back to recollect, regather, and rejoin.

Once they came back together, they did not separate again.

He looked now to his left to where Crowley was sleeping now. There was nothing elegant about the way he slept: his face pressed so deeply against Aziraphale’s side, he’d be worried he was trying to push his way through the pin-striped fabric of his pajamas and all the way through his gut. True, he fell asleep facing away from the lamplight, but he always managed to find his way back to Aziraphale. His narrow body was only confined at all because it twisted and jutted in such a way that the sheets wound themselves about him like a spider’s most ambitious creation. One elbow was uselessly propped up somewhere, and his free hand curled inwards, occasionally twitching as he dreamt. How he slept through the night like that was unimaginable to Aziraphale.

Yet, here he was, asleep and blissfully unaware of any discomfort come morning. Nothing could wake him from his slumber except for the sun if it rudely snuck through the curtains Aziraphale closed before he slept and played its games on his eyelids. His breaths, warm against Aziraphale’s skin, matched the push and pull of the tides, slow, steady, constant. He outshone the brilliant summer poppies when the sunlight caught in his hair before it could bother him. Aziraphale laid a reverent hand there now, threading his fingers between the strands while thumbing the dark ink of the serpent branded on Crowley’s temple.

He had been granted the most esteemed gift, to have this beautiful creature, man, demon, his fantastical, fathomless Crowley. Everything about him, his trust, rare, his love, deep, and his body, healing. Not a day would pass without Aziraphale almost sinking to knees in gratitude for being allowed to love all of him, and to be loved by him. A great swelling rose up from somewhere behind his stomach, flooding him with adoration until he began to tremble and glow. Laughing silently, Aziraphale let the waves pass through him, let a few tears drip from his eyes, and turned out the lamp.

The old dog had finally quieted, lulled by the shh-ing of the trees and the hum of crickets and the song of the sea. 

_It’s okay,_ they said, _rest easy. We will watch you. It will be okay. You will be okay, come morning—we will be here._

Aziraphale sank down into his pillows and pulled Crowley in close against his chest, rearranging then sprawled limbs so that he could hold them all in his arms. The smell of acrid smoke and heat filled his nose at first, but deeper down was something Crowley had created himself—soil, earthen and rich, and something sharper like wine. He closed his eyes.

Everything within the fog was asleep now. The raucous gulls, the chittering chipmunks, the bog-soaked frogs. The old dog, and the two lovers, until the new day rose to greet them all once again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3 i wanted to just. give them peace. i hope i conveyed that well.  
i really wanna write what the people want to see, so if you have any requests for our favorite immortal deities, i'd love to see them! if you'd like to, send one to my [tumblr!](https://scintillating-galaxias.tumblr.com/)  
have a wonderful day!


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